Only a year after the intermittently thrilling , snapped into focus on its sophomore album, 1988's . "Focus" is an odd word for the persistently addled, violently hedonistic , yet has its own peculiar drug logic, loping into view with the two-stepping a cut so twisted it goes far beyond irony, then settling into the dense groove of its hook buzzing and circling, causing a cacophony. Such vivid, concrete textures are a hallmark of producer , the Mancunian legend who has been brought on board to give the direction by doing the opposite of what he did with . His production for was stark, austere, but is all smeared colors and harsh edges, a fistful of razors and menace cutting viciously into the subconscious. This is nasty, nightmarish music delivered with a lascivious leer by , a hallucinatory accidental poet portrayed on the album's garish cover as some kind of harlot put out to pasture. Decadence has rarely sounded as dangerous as it did in the hands of the and this is where they reveled in that debauchery, pumping out stiff as spat out rhymes of luck, lazyitis and fat lady wrestlers. 's bright, brittle production amplifies everything, creating a swirling hyper-reality that's almost a sonic black hole sucking everything into its vortex -- slide guitars, sound clips from maniacally looped drum machines, melodies, drums that are pushed to the front of the mix so it all is a relentless assault, from the ears down to the loins. As jagged and lacerating as all this is, there's a sense of evil glee, that the want to drag you down to their level, but there's no sense of seduction here; you're either with them or not, as is music for after you've already succumbed to the dark side. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine